by William Poe
The comment shocked me. The core of our teaching was that everyone deserved God’s love.
“He’s serious,” I confirmed. “He cried in repentance.”
“You saw him cry?” Mitsui asked, barely restraining a smirk.
“It took courage for Martin to seek help,” I said firmly.
“All right,” Mitsui agreed, unable to penetrate my mask of denial. “Send the brother to Dr. Goren.”
Martin began attending sessions in the mornings. I spoke to the New York MFT commander and suggested that, because a member wanted to start fundraising now, he should join a local team. The commander placed Martin on a team staying at the New Yorker. We told the workshop members that Martin felt he was ready to start fundraising, knowing they would see him with members of the team and wonder about it.
Several times, I ran into Martin coming back late at night from selling flowers in bars. He never responded with more than a quick wave. Though I was curious about his experience with Dr. Goren, I decided to wait until Martin wanted to talk about it.
One afternoon, as I was leaving the hotel, Martin dashed through the revolving doors and headed toward the elevators. I called out, wondering if something was wrong; it was unusual seeing him at the New Yorker during the day. Martin glanced over his shoulder, but didn’t acknowledge me. Something inside said, Follow him, but I ignored the impulse and continued to the coffee shop where I was going for a late lunch.
An hour later, I headed back to the New Yorker. As I rounded the corner, flashing lights accosted me. There must have been twenty police cars on 43rd Street in front of the building. A fire truck ladder extended into the window of an upper floor. Reporters held notepads, and photographers flashed cameras. A news van, equipped with a remote antenna, pulled up behind an ambulance as paramedics unloaded a gurney and rushed inside.
The revolving doors were unreachable through the crowds, so I went around to a service entrance. The guard recognized me and let me pass. In the rush, I banged my knee against a metal chair, but nothing would deter me from finding out what had happened.
Family members were pouring from the stairwell as I entered the lobby. They looked confused and frightened. Many were sobbing. Others stood frozen in disbelief.
“What is it?” I asked Sharon, whom I spotted in the crowd.
“There’s a body in the elevator shaft. They say he fell from the thirtieth floor.”
“Someone said it’s Martin!” a brother from the workshop hollered out.
I collapsed onto the carpet. Two brothers were helping me up when Norman appeared, fighting his way toward us.
“It’s him, Simon. It’s our Martin. He must have jumped. There’s no other explanation.”
“I can’t live with this!” I screamed.
Norman grabbed my shoulders.
I threw off his grasp and plowed through the crush of members. Passing through the revolving doors, I shoved past a group of reporters who held out microphones and demanded a comment.
“A statement, sir? What’s going on in there?”
“Go away!” I shouted. “Leave me alone!”
I ran down the street with no idea where I was going or what I might do.
CHAPTER 26
In the lobby the next morning, I overheard two members of the workshop arguing about whether Martin’s death had been God’s will or a freak accident. Someone used the word suicide.
“Good riddance, as far as I’m concerned,” one brother said coldly to another.
I wondered what the brother knew, until I heard the dismissive rejoinder.
“Yeah, we don’t need fags in the church.”
Mitsui must have started a rumor after the discovery of Martin’s body. No one else besides Norman and I knew Martin’s situation.
Martin’s death affected Norman deeply. During the remaining lectures, he stopped emphasizing doctrine. Instead, he spoke about God’s loving heart. In private, Norman confided that Martin’s death had taught him a serious lesson.
“God loves us,” Norman said. “He wants to help people like Martin become part of His family.”
People like Martin.
I was like Martin.
“Dr. Goren caused Martin to think that God had rejected him,” Norman said. “We sent him to a witch doctor.”
As the workshop ended, we accompanied the last members to the port authority, putting them on buses to the fundraising regions Mitsui had assigned. When we returned to the New Yorker, Norman asked me to accompany him to Mitsui’s office, saying he needed my support.
Mitsui was eating breakfast with ten Japanese brothers, each of whom led one of the family businesses. Mitsui asked us to join them. A sister brought out miso soup and a boiled egg from the kitchen. Norman patiently waited for an opportunity to speak.
I often caught the meaning of spoken Japanese. Mitsui mentioned taxes, and I presumed that the context was the recent scrutiny of the church’s books by the IRS. Several times, Mitsui referred to Bozeman.
For years, the American Church directors under Bozeman’s leadership had established commercial businesses and then pumped fundraising money into their bank accounts to make the enterprises seem profitable—a practice otherwise known as money laundering. The cash-rich companies more easily secured bank loans, making expansion easier. I wasn’t sure if Mitsui criticized or praised the American leaders’ efforts. The Japanese sitting at the table were doing the same thing. I knew about investments of money from MFT regions going into a company that ostensibly made toys on Long Island in an out-of-commission factory that Father had purchased.
Rumors had been circulating that Father planned to bring couples together from earlier blessings. Norman, Randall, Mary, and dozens of others, including Kawasaki, would soon start their families. People assumed that the various commercial enterprises would offer them employment.
“Mitsui, I am sorry to disturb your meeting,” Norman said, interjecting at a lull in the conversation. “I have to return to Los Angles later this morning. Before I go, I want to offer some advice.”
Mitsui reared back in his chair. The Japanese brothers, exercising their best poker faces, sat rigid and stone-faced.
“We shouldn’t send any more members to Dr. Goren,” Norman began. “We need to trust God and find a religious solution.”
“There is no religious solution,” Mitsui shrugged. “Anyway, No’man, homos have nothing to do with God.”
The Japanese brothers chuckled. I wasn’t sure if it was due to Mitsui using the slang term homos or because of the way he had pronounced Norman’s name.
Norman remained calm, but I could see a vein in his neck throbbing. Suddenly, he clenched his fist and hit the table so hard that a dish bounced to the floor. “You are very wrong!” he said. “Homosexuals long for God’s love the same as you and me. We must have compassion!”
Surrounded by subordinates as Mitsui was, Norman’s outburst meant a loss of face. Mitsui spat out the derogatory term kono kusottare, the Japanese equivalent of telling someone to get screwed. The brothers smirked.
“If you want to help homosexuals,” Mitsui said, “I’ll send them to Los Angeles. You can create a homosexual center.” He lifted his teacup and calmly took a sip. The brothers broke out in full-throated laughter.
“Send any members you like,” Norman said. “The doors of my center are open to all God’s children.”
Mitsui refused to acknowledge that Norman had spoken.
Norman stood to leave. He glared at the brothers and then focused on Mitsui. “You’ll get no further support from me,” he said. “No one from my center will be joining your fundraising teams.”
“What about you, Simon-san?” Mitsui asked, studying me intently. “Are you going to Los Angeles?”
My heart nearly stopped. Was Mitsui asking if I wanted to be the first homosexual sent to Los Angeles?
I stuck a chopstick in my bowl of miso soup and stirred. Norman had already left the room, but paused halfway down the hall. He beckon
ed me to follow him.
It was said that, at the point of death, one’s life flashed before his or her eyes. At that moment, my entire experience in the family played out in my thoughts: the sacrifices, the persecutions, the sufferings, the faces of members who looked to me as a trusted leader. What about my standing as a founding member of the MFT? Was I to surrender my privileged position as a commander?
I turned away from Norman and met Mitsui’s eyes. “I am loyal to you, Taicho. Why would I go to Los Angeles?”
Norman disappeared down the corridor. Later, I spotted him with his luggage, heading through the lobby on his way to the airport. I resisted the urge to follow him.
Kawasaki arrived in New York that same day. Since news broke about the death of Hyo-jin’s friend, he had been out visiting the MFT regions, talking to members. Kawasaki was surprised to find that the controversy surrounding the accident had already caused some members to leave the church. Conrad Pearson, a recently appointed commander in San Francisco, helped him understand by explaining that most American members had grown up in Christian churches and that a core ethic of Christianity was described in John 15:13: “Greater love has no one than this, that he lay down his life for his friends.” The newspaper reports implied that Hyo-jin had made no effort to save the other boy’s life. How could that be the son of True Parents?
That Hyo-jin didn’t know how to swim wasn’t an acceptable excuse. After all, the Messiah should “command the elements,” shouldn’t he? If Jesus walked on water, surely Christ’s son possessed at least some ability to save his friend.
No one had left the church from my Midwest region. I credited that to the fact that I had emphasized Father’s humanity, pointing out that we no longer lived in an age of miracles, but an age of personal responsibility. And, at any rate, my region had more to worry about than the ability of Father’s children to perform wonders. Legal battles commanded our attention.
The Wisconsin legislature passed a statute aimed at preventing groups such as ours from fundraising. The law created onerous requirements for acquiring a state license. I had already met with a lawyer who had won injunctions against similar laws. The attorney was anxious to bring First Amendment law to bear on the state of Wisconsin.
There was much work to accomplish, but as I was preparing to return to Chicago, Mitsui told me to accompany him and Kawasaki to Belvedere.
Visiting Father was always a joyous occasion, but I sensed tension. Perhaps Father had something to say about the workshop—and about Martin. I hoped not.
Kawasaki drove us to Tarrytown in a new MFT van. Sitting in the backseat, I contemplated how this chance to see Father would have been lost had I gone to Los Angeles with Norman.
We pulled in front of a newly fortified security gate where three brothers stood guard, each wearing a special uniform with a silver badge. Whether it was brainwashing that people feared or the demise of democracy under a theocratic regime, all sorts of people had come out against Reverend Moon, and there had been numerous death threats.
“We are meeting with Father,” Kawasaki replied when the highest-ranking guard asked our purpose.
Mitsui scowled at the guard. Nonplussed, the brother telephoned the main house for confirmation before allowing us to pass. Kawasaki located a parking space near the training center. As we walked the path toward Father’s mansion, cameras mounted on tall poles monitored our progress.
A Japanese sister greeted us at the door and instructed us to put our shoes in a wooden rack. A plush, and obviously expensive, Persian rug absorbed every sound as we entered through the foyer. Several of Father’s children scampered in front of our party and charged upstairs. Chasing after them with equally childlike laughter was Gloria. What a different person she was from the traumatized sister I’d put on the airplane to New York! She smiled warmly, but had no time to spare as she raced to catch up with the children.
Sergeant Choi, dressed as always in an expensive tailored suit, led us into a spacious living room separated from a recreation area by a low retaining wall, along the top of which a burnished oak rail passed through brass balusters. Father was playing billiards with a Korean brother who I recognized as a church elder called Dr. Lee, one of Father’s early disciples. The legs of the antique pool table sported carved figureheads like those on the bow of sailing ships. Overhead, a rectangular green lamp dangled on chains.
Father paid us no mind as he angled a shot into the right corner pocket. When the ball veered in the wrong direction, Father lifted the stick and spoke a foul word in Korean. Dr. Lee laughed. When Father realized he had an audience, his face became forcibly serene. It was a jarring transformation, considering the frustration exhibited a moment earlier. Mother entered from a door on the opposite side of the recreation room. She scolded Father, covering a clandestine smile as she repeated the word he had used. She greeted Mitsui, nodding regally toward Kawasaki and me, and then made her way up the stairs that Gloria and the children had ascended.
Dr. Lee approached the billiard table to make his shot. The cue ball disappeared into a side pocket. Father studied his options with tremendous concentration and then knocked two balls straight into the left corner, one following the other. The game was over. Father had won. He patted Dr. Lee on the back as if to say, Next time. Dr. Lee began setting up practice shots as Father racked his cue stick and headed toward the sitting room. He positioned himself on a plush chair and began speaking in Japanese to Mitsui and Kawasaki. Father’s eyebrows danced as he spoke. When Mitsui began talking, Father removed a shoe and rubbed the sole of his foot. I heard the words MFT region several times, along with Stanley’s name. Mitsui also said something about Conrad Pearson, the commander in San Francisco.
A Japanese sister came into the room with a serving tray of rice cakes and ginseng tea. She placed the food on a table beside Father’s chair. Father took several cakes and plopped them into his mouth. Then he motioned for us to help ourselves. It struck me that Father had not first offered us refreshments, which would have been customary (not to mention polite) in most cultures.
Father and Mitsui continued speaking in Japanese. I heard my name more than once. Sergeant Choi began to translate. “Mitsui and Kawasaki have many good things to say about you,” he told me. “Members respect you. That is a sign of true success.”
Father’s deep eyes seemed to peer into my soul. Not since the visit at the Tudor House in Little Rock had we been in such close proximity.
Sergeant Choi addressed me directly, saying, “Father often speaks about the events in Little Rock. You joined the family with a friend. That is very special.”
Father rubbed his foot harder as he continued to study me. “Are you ready for serious responsibility?” Father asked in English.
“Yes, Father,” I replied, sitting up straight.
“There has been a tragedy,” Father said, through Sergeant Choi. I thought Father was referring to the boating accident, until Sergeant Choi continued. “Your friend has disappeared. We want you to go to Dallas.”
Stanley!
Kawasaki rested a hand on my shoulder as I slumped forward. So this is why we had come to Belvedere. Mitsui and Kawasaki wanted me to hear the news directly from Father.
Father offered me a cup of ginseng tea. I took it from him with both hands, according to Asian custom. Father rose from his chair and pointed toward the billiard table.
“Play pool?” Father asked.
I bowed respectfully and said, “Yes.”
Father laughed. “We play game?” He went to the rack and retrieved his custom-made cue stick while Sergeant Choi said something to Dr. Lee, who left the room.
I selected a stick from the rack and proceeded to play a terrible game of pool. I was too nervous to keep a steady hand. When I missed an easy setup, Father exploded with laughter. It took a few games, but I finally relaxed and forgot I was competing with the Messiah. I joked around as much as I dared, and once pointed out that Father had hit a different ball from the one he’d cal
led.
As I prepared to land the eight ball in a side pocket, Father took out a handkerchief and blew his nose. I retaliated by “accidentally” dropping my cue stick just as he prepared to make a particularly difficult shot.
I forgot about Stanley. Martin disappeared from my thoughts. The legal issues confronting the Midwest region seemed remote. For a short time, I genuinely felt like a member of Father’s immediate family.
On the drive back to the New Yorker, Mitsui seemed intent on dispelling the afterglow of my experience. He spoke of nothing but Stanley, accusing him of betraying the Texas members, and worse, staining the reputation of the MFT.
If, in fact, Stanley had left the family, I blamed it on Mitsui’s poor leadership. Mitsui lauded the Japanese leaders even when their regions didn’t perform well. He found nothing good to say about Americans, no matter how much we accomplished.
“We should have known there might be trouble,” Kawasaki said, interjecting. “Stanley was upset when he heard about the boating accident.”
“What really happened on that boat, Kawasaki-san?” I hoped, primarily, to change the subject from Stanley. “Does anyone know?”
Mitsui answered. “Hyo-jin and the boy took a rowboat onto the Hudson River when no one was looking. The friend was diabetic. He forgot his shots that morning. On the boat, he fainted. Hyo-jin did not know what to do. The boy fell overboard. Hyo-jin paddled to shore and got help, but it was too late. The bodyguards should have been watching them.”
With Mitsui, someone else was always to blame.
“Why doesn’t the church explain that to the press?” I asked.
“The friend’s parents are suing Father and the church,” Kawasaki said. “The lawyers do not want us to discuss the accident.”
“Poor Hyo-jin,” I said. “I didn’t see him at Belvedere.”
“Father sent him to Korea,” Kawasaki explained.
Mitsui shifted in his seat, frustrated with the conversation. “The important thing,” he said, almost shouting, “is that members of the Texas region must not leave because of Stanley!”